


cicatrice

by eunoia



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Alternate universe - Mafia, Angst, BAMF!Zayn, Dark, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Falling In Love, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, M/M, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eunoia/pseuds/eunoia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>cicatrice</b><br/>cic⋅a⋅trice / ˈsikə-ˌtris / noun<br/><i>'the scar of a healed wound.'</i></p><p> <br/>zayn remembers because it’s necessary. he was going to kill the man responsible for this, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cicatrice

 

 

“And there comes a time in your life  
when you realize that if you don’t **take the opportunity to be happy** ,  
you may never get another chance again.”   
— _Richard Russo_

zayn drinks black coffee and smokes cigarettes until five in the morning. he’s bleeding. the pungent odor burning through his nose like this was how it’s always been. he supposes it is.

harry comes through the door, muscles stiff and long limbs awkward like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves. everything aches and harry just looks so damn _young_ standing there with wide eyes glazed over and bloodied everywhere _._

“i think i’ve lost my mind,” he says aloud, putting fingers onto zayn’s shoulder and feeling the warm, wet blood trickling down on tan skin, wrecked from a bullet.

zayn wonders briefly if this is how they’ve always looked because on the inside, he feels old.

 

 

 

 

 

**I**

the funeral for his parents was a melancholic affair. it was black, in every sense of the word, and everything a funeral ought to be and then some. zayn doesn’t remember much, save for the men in suits wearing guns tucked in between dark pants and cheap dress shirts.

he remembers two polished coffins tainted by pounds of dirt, buried and settling in holes that were made specifically for them. remembers, child services taking away his two younger sisters from him and doniya, crying, because she wasn’t _fit enough_ , wasn’t _financially secure_ to take care of three kids under the legal age.

the anger shakes him to the core, his hands closed in tight fists until all that was left grounding him was his father’s last words: 

 _“don’t be willfully blind, son. there are things in this world that are cruel. what’s important is how you’ll go about fixing it.”_                                                     

zayn remembers because it’s necessary. he was going to kill the man responsible for this, after all.

 

 

(“and what’ve we got here? spiderman, is it?” 

zayn looks up, holding his figurine so tightly to his chest in an act of ownership. _mine_ , he seethes quietly. he looks to his dad with clear distaste, his young self mistrusting and mouth set into a snarl at the stranger grinning down on him, all teeth and shark like.

“now zayn,” his father says sternly, “be nice. this is anthony keller, the man that’ll get daddy back on his feet. do you understand me?”

zayn nods, not quite comprehending. “nice to meet you, sir.” 

keller laughs maniacally, eyes glittering like he wants to set the world on fire and watch it burn in flames.

“indeed,” he replies.)

he changes his name to _parker_ because he rather liked spiderman and if he was going to devote his life planning on killing _anthony keller,_ well. _parker_ seems fitting, for old time’s sake.

 

 

 

 

 

it’s louis, surprisingly, that recruits him. impressed with his skills of perfecting exact copies of artworks and antiquities you would see in museums and art galleries. the replicas and originals from _parker_ selling like hot cakes in the black market and the real world.

“you’re quite the interesting man,” zayn remembers him saying all those years ago.

they’re standing at the edge of the city, guns directed against each other. 

louis lifts his revolver, just a little. his grin bloody and maddening.

“come work for us.”

it isn’t a question.

“and why should i trust you?” zayn seethes, challenging and fire burning. 

louis beams, a sort of smile that responds too quickly but cracked enough to know that it needs something in return. 

“because we want keller too.”

he spits out blood, fingers flexing over the trigger.

_click._

zayn shoots louis just right above the heart and agrees.

 

the british firms are a name designated to describe the small and large-scale mafias originating in different parts of the uk. the london crime families are the biggest and most ruthless organized crime groups in western europe.

the adler family has owned the playground for generations, known for the most kills and through the most pacifist of methods—a contradiction at best—they’ve become unstoppable. vincent adler was a legend. he was a god that zayn, even back then, knew not to question or challenge.

so of course the first time he meets the head of the adler family, he was livid.

“zayn malik, it’s nice to finally have a face to put with that name.”

zayn felt numb then, looked at the stranger in front of him with a steely gaze. “you mean you haven’t already? your lackeys seem to know me quite well.”

the man laughs, warm and knowing, green eyes steady and unyielding as he puts a hand on zayn’s shoulder to keep him in place.

“we’ve a few things in common, you and i.”

zayn nods, lips pressed into a grim line. “so i’ve heard.”

“the murderous albeit naïve attempts in finding keller must be tiring you, i’m sure,” adler starts, looking amusedly at the con-man extraordinaire sitting in front of him, “you do realize you're implicated in at least a dozen other confidence schemes, frauds, and forgeries because of such stupidity.”

“then i must’ve not done my job right.”

adler laughs, a mocking kind of laugh that leaves zayn a little winded and more than pissed off. he grabs for his gun—

“there’s no need to be hostile, malik.” 

zayn snorts, hands steady. “what do you want from me then?” 

adler heads over to the windows resting near his desk, his back facing zayn as he crosses his arms from behind. “isn’t it obvious? i want you to work for me. i’ve got the necessary resources and money. of course we’ll groom you, train you, make you even better than you were before.”

zayn stays silent. adler continues as if expecting nothing less, “keller wants my head on a platter, it seems. he doesn’t quite understand the dynamics of being a mafia leader, you see.”

he turns around abruptly, facing zayn with a wicked smile, “all that blood and killing will do him no good if he doesn’t learn his place. i owe a lot to your father for bringing up keller’s attempt at a coup d’état back then.”

zayn blinks, taking the information in. “so this is merely a debt to be paid.”

adler shakes his head, clarifies:

“no. it’s revenge.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

zayn malik grew up in a foster care system designed to chew him up and spit him out, leaving him with cracked memories of what used to be and too soon mornings where nothing was the same. 

his parents dropped dead through the thin walls of their bradford home when zayn and his sisters were asleep one night, years ago. he can’t remember what he did that day or what he dreamt about or if he even dreamt at all. but he remembers the muffled screams he thought were waliyha and safaa fighting like they always do (a mistake) and the soft padding of footsteps disappearing quickly into the night (another mistake) he may have imagined it. that is, until the morning after when reality struck and he was left with too young kids to know anything but _redredred_ splattered on mahogany floors.

 

(“a burglary perhaps,” zayn hears vaguely from the man in the suit, examining what’s left of the crime scene. 

“d’ya really expect me to believe that?” another counters, “the maliks weren’t exactly black and white. there’s a few gray areas.” 

zayn feels his heart sink.

“a murder, then?”

“they are linked to keller after all. bloody bastard has the whole mob tearing up the place and looking for rats.”

“and the kids?”

zayn holds onto his sisters and keeps quiet.

“let child services deal with ‘em.”

“it’s a shame, really.”

“s’pose it’s expected. life of crime and all.” 

“but the kids—”

“are not our problem. do your job, mate.”)

 

zayn keeps himself in check because at the end of the day, nothing good ever lasts.

 

 

 

 

 

there was murray, evans, jones, williams. all of them working for keller and refusing to provide him with any information. he’s lost the body count after the seventh kill. he shouldn’t be surprised, really. because before he could even blink he’s become the very assassins that murdered his parents.

sometimes, zayn wonders if it’s all meaningless.

 

 

 

 

 

his first kill was andrew sheckman. a bald man with piercing brown eyes that were almost black, even in the sunlight. zayn had been hunting him down for months, grabbing as much intel he can of the bloke who was supposedly keller’s right hand man. routine, zayn supposes, is a valuable thing. 

he’s standing over sheckman’s body, blood lust radiating off of him in waves. he lifts his revolver, clicks the cylinder over once and aims. 

“where is he?” zayn asks, clear of any sympathy.

sheckman is a bloodied mess, face unrecognizable from zayn’s fists and anger. he spits out a drool of red and struggles a laugh.

“you’ve got a lot of nerve, boy,” sheckman replies. 

“i don’t like repeating myself, you know.” zayn’s got a black boot pressed on top of sheckman’s chest. he doesn’t flinch when he presses harder and the body below cries out in pain.

sheckman smiles with teeth missing, eyes wild. “they call him a ghost for a reason. he knows everything ‘bout you, zayn malik. d’ya really think killing one man will stop him from doing what he does?”

he pauses for a second, breaths coming in ragged. “i am _nothing_ to him. _we_ are nothing to him.”

zayn punches him square in the face. sheckman grins harder. 

“did i ask for your thoughts on the matter?” zayn asks, blood boiling. 

“you’d better hurry along,” sheckman practically leers, “i’m afraid your front porch has had a few additions. it’s a shame really. waliyha and safaa, they were a lovely lot.”

zayn pulls the trigger. he makes sure the man screams before he dies.

 

 

 

 

 

he wakes up feeling trampled, arms and legs constricted by plastic ropes piercing through his skin. his head is burning, his ribs are protesting every time he breathes, and he’s pretty sure his knees have been twisted.

he squints at the flashing lights, eyes barely adjusting. he knows without looking that there’s someone else in the room with him.

“you’ve caused quite a fuss, _parker_.”

zayn almost stiffens at the voice, anger scorching and already consuming his mind.

anthony keller sits in front of him, dressed in armani and pristine hair gelled to the side. he’s got wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and a smile with the reflection of flames and madness.

“sheckman, murray, eames. shall i list some more? you’ve really outdone yourself. if anything, i’m more impressed at your persistence.” 

zayn spits at him. “i’ve found you, didn’t i?” 

keller merely wipes his face, grinning now. he laughs and laughs and laughs. zayn wants nothing more than to punch him in the face and put a bullet through his heart.

“it’s all meaningless anyway,” keller responds, voice bored but with underlying ruthlessness. “surely you’ve realized by now that you’ve nothing left.”

zayn struggles with the confines he’s been locked to, rage boiling through. 

“you killed my fucking—”

“oh, don’t let yourself get hung up on _that_.”

keller eyes him wearily, smirk wide enough to liken the oceans. “you’re lucky i’ve saved doniya for last. now there’s a pretty thing.”

“don’t you dare.”

he sees the revolver getting closer and then the barrel of the gun sliding lightly across his forehead. zayn takes a breath; keller is holding a rusted spiderman figure.

“with great power comes great responsibility,” keller remarks, “or did you conveniently forget that while you’ve been away, killing my men?”

“go to hell.” 

keller grips the revolver and drags it down to zayn’s mouth, sliding the barrel past zayn’s lips. he’s leaning close enough that zayn sees the gold sparks surrounding his pupils in a sea of blue eyes. 

zayn wants to kill him.

“it’s a shame you forgot the most important part,” he says.

zayn watches him pull the trigger before— 

(“i am _hell_.”)

everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**II**

“you’re getting a bit reckless, little brother.” 

zayn wakes up to doniya shaking him, feeling sharp pricks in the backs of his eyes as he looks up at his sister tiredly. “time s’it?”

“where the hell have you been?” doniya gets straight to the point because _honestly zayn you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve._ this subsequently gives zayn only a millisecond to swallow his witty retort before he hears her add (quite menacingly), “and please explain to me why you’ve got blood all over my goddamn floors.”

“shit,” he rasps out, sitting up and hissing slightly at the pain stabbing his left rib. he mutters a quiet thanks when he realizes bandages are covering half of his body and rolls his shoulders slowly. 

“turning up at my door and promptly passing out does not constitute a free pass or pity of any kind,” she comments, glaring. 

well, then.

“i can expl—”

doniya interrupts, “if the next words out of your mouth are _parker_ and that stolen donatello painting all over the telly, i swear to god—”

zayn starts too harshly, “it’s just one lapse of judgment, honest. i think an exception’s allowed when you get shot at.”

“exigent circumstances, my arse,” doniya says as she swears under her breath. “i thought you knew better than to get into these kinds of situations.”

zayn rubs at his temples, “i may need a new fence, more like. wanker sold me out as soon as he got the chance, not that he predicted i knew all along. the fucking twat.” 

“you got outta there then?”

zayn grunts, “barely. jerry’s men weren’t too happy to find nothing but teflon cargos to dupont. they’re not as tactful as they think they are. but the real shipment came through, yeah.” 

doniya smiles sadly, ruffling zayn’s hair because she knows he hates it.

“just don’t get in so deep that you can’t get out, all right?”

the first time he meets harry styles, zayn almost shoots him.

 

 

 

 

 

“i’m starting to believe you’ve become obsessed with me or summat,” zayn says after the third time they’ve run into each other sans bullets. 

“like i would bore myself with the likes of you,” harry retaliates, grabbing a champagne from a nearby waiter and rolling his eyes in feign irritation. adds, “twat” just for the hell of it.

harry is all dimples and shiny teeth, making sure to emphasize the last part with a contented sigh. he’s eyeing zayn’s replica of pissarro’s _boulevard montmartre la nuit_ with interest and really, zayn shouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised that harry’s at the channing auction house. today, of all days, when he’s about ready to sell his piece.

“what’re you doing here?” 

“you know,” harry notes, lowering his voice a little because _the walls have ears all right_ , “i’ve never actually seen you steal anything before. i’m still uncertain as to why liam praises your work so much. josh doesn’t seem to think you’re all that great. ”

“josh is a bloody bastard.”

zayn looks at him expectantly. harry laughs like he can read zayn’s mind, eyes shaped like half-crescent moons. 

“s’just a friendly visit, love. scoping out the collection and the like.”

zayn obviously doesn’t buy it, lips pressed into a thin line. “and why exactly, do i have a strange feeling it’s more than that?” 

harry winks without a reply, leaning close enough that zayn is backing away a few inches and drawing out long breaths because harry apparently doesn’t care for personal space.

“i heard you were looking for a fence,” he whispers in zayn’s ear, smoothing out the crinkles of zayn’s tom ford suit like this was just how they were. as though they haven’t met for the first time, days ago.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“oh don’t be naïve, zayn.” 

zayn glares. his name was parker, after all.

“you need a middleman desperately and i’m the best you’ve got. you can check my references, of course. liam and niall are on the top of the list.”

“i don’t even know you.”

“haven’t you ever had faith?”

harry leans closer. zayn feels anxiety bubbling over and spilling out of his ribcage when he has the sudden urge to sink the ridges of his knuckles to the valley of harry’s cheeks. it’s odd, is the thing. because he feels like he’s been hit with a ton of bricks, heart pumping too much blood and humming in confusion.

“i’ll be off then. see you around, _parker._ ”

harry waves smugly like he’s got zayn cornered somehow before disappearing into a sea of faces moving about in a beautiful kind of way, all blurred and nameless.

zayn blinks. his heart rattling in awkward thumps when he realizes that harry kissed him on the lips, the flesh burning and wearing the endearment like a bruise.

the “ _you’ll be hearing from me soon”_ goes unnoticed.

“so the infamous _parker_ lives,” an excited voice exclaims, something akin to admiration. “nice work on the antioch manuscripts, by the way. personally would have used a different ink, you know, for that biblical touch.”

zayn looks up from his seat, coming face-to-face with none other than louis donned in his classic striped shirt and beanie, teeth glowing scarily white.

they’re in new york, for that “small-time” heist josh convinced him to be a part of. a down and dirty slash and grab from the museum of natural history with a calvary (a puny team, really) full of forgers, art collectors and black market fences specializing in thievery. he’s flown all the way from london to manhattan in a matter of hours and thanks to louis (or rather, _nick calden_ ) interpol’s off his back, soca too. fbi doesn’t even know he exists.

“it passed all the usual tests though, didn’t it?” zayn counters.

“more or less,” louis agrees, staring at a group of people huddled around a table and focusing on random blueprints that zayn supposes is of the museum’s. “let’s hope our forgeries do the same.”

zayn nods, quiet and contemplative like always.

louis leans in, keeps his voice low and says, “how’s that rib of yours? heard jerry’s men caught you smuggling paintings over or rather, teflon was it?”

zayn scoffs. “don’t mock me, louis. it’s impolite.”

“you know, with that donatello all over the telly at least tell me the rembrandts were saved too.”

a glare.

louis laughs heartily, gives him a folder discretely and winks. “a reward then, for a job well done. _adler_ sends his thanks, of course. he was particularly pleased with that quick cargo switch up. your fence is being handled as we speak.” 

zayn raises his eyebrows.

“you know how the mafia are,” louis says, shrugging impassively, “busy being thugs and mass murderers or summat.”

zayn can’t help but give out a small laugh. it comes out awkward more than anything. like an empty echo of hollow words. the sound tickling deafeningly in his ears since he rarely laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

the second time he fucks harry zayn wakes up, after sleeping for fourteen hours straight, to a rapid knocking at his front door. he’s been awake for five days, working on a long con he’s been diligently planning with louis for months.

and zayn feels fucking glorious because they’ve finally taken care of it all yesterday.

he stumbles out of his bedroom, blinking into the early afternoon light, wearing just his boxers and trying to scrub the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffles to answer the door.

“ _what.”_

it’s harry. and it’s saturday. and did he not mention he was sleeping because, seriously?

harry seems to read zayn’s mind because he’s smiling like a fucking moron, half laughing at zayn in an oddly familiar way that zayn can’t help but pout.

“reckon i should come back,” harry drawls out. 

harry’s wearing light grey jeans and a dark jacket zipped only halfway with a white v-neck underneath, the slice of pale collarbones showing hints of a tattoo. zayn’s mouth goes dry and he almost whimpers because he just woke up and his brain is still struggling to connect to the server. 

“reckon you should,” zayn grunts, blinking slowly and trying to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. “but you’re not going to, are you?” he adds. naturally.

harry grins. zayn sighs.

“what do you want, haz? it’s my day off and like. sleeping would be nice.”

“sleeping would be nice, but i’m here now. so maybe another time.” 

zayn wants to hit him.

“you really like to see me suffer, don’t you?”

harry shakes his head, dimples full blown and teeth shining gloriously. “not when there’s lovely sausages involved.”

zayn swallows. “t-that’s not what i was getting at.”

harry laughs boisterously, clutching his stomach as he kisses zayn on the lips and lets himself in with a bag full of grub that zayn failed to see. fucking brain. 

“i brought lunch, you idiot. get your mind out of the gutter.” 

zayn wants.

he tries fucking it out of his system; a new conquest each night. a fiery redhead who likes to top, a wicked brunette with a mouth like angelina jolie, a lanky boy with blonde curls. he takes them long and hard, but even when they are sweat-soaked and spent, he opens his eyes to someone who is not harry and it’s like a slap to the face. he doesn’t linger on that thought for too long. 

it’s pathetic and absurd and completely, irrationally debilitating. so it’s a bit of a shock when it’s perrie that corners him one day and gives it to him straight. 

“feelings are not a weakness, you know.” she’s perched on the edge of his desk, slender legs crossed at the knee. the heel of her red pump dangles precariously off the back of her left foot.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies.

“he could be the one,” she teases. “not that i’m complaining. the sex has improved immensely.”

zayn glares. perrie sighs dramatically.

“you’re being insufferable,” she admits. “you should tell him.”

“still no idea what you’re on about,” zayn says stubbornly.

“it’s not very hard to say _:_ _i think if i woke up next to you, i’d be more of a morning person_. he’d be flattered even. it’s quite romantic.”

perrie is smug when she sees zayn’s face, contorted in a way that he doesn’t want to admit to anything. zayn goes out for a smoke and briefly wonders if everyone he knows is secretly plotting against him.

**III**

it comes to him quite slowly, embarrassingly so, when he looks up to find harry watching him with the faintest curl at the ends of his lips.

“you’re in love with me,” zayn says before he can stop himself. he feels warm and cold at the same time, blinking away the distant ache forming in his heart.

“yeah,” harry replies and he’s beaming now, all curves and no angles. his eyes aren’t smiling when he says, “i am.”

zayn doesn’t know if it’s a good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“you’re staring.” 

louis shoots zayn a glare like he’s interrupted something extremely important. admittedly, he has been staring and louis revels on the thought that it’s making zayn uncomfortable and squirm where he’s seated.

“what is it?”

louis just gives him this look, the one that clearly says zayn’s being an idiot because zayn knows what’s coming, what this is about. he can practically feel it. it’s inevitable, really. 

“you’re being reckless.” 

zayn shrugs.

“i’m just messing about.”

“messing harry about, more like.”

zayn opens his mouth to interject but louis gets his mouth in first, “and don’t even mention perrie, if you know what’s good for you.”

zayn sighs. “m’not sure i’m fit for human company. not the way harry wants anyway.”

“nice try, mate.”

“that sounds an awful lot like assuming.”

louis exhales. “you’re scared.” 

“of what, exactly?”

“because you care more than you should.”

zayn shakes his head until the thudding in his chest stills.

“i ought to get a proper job,” harry says one night. he’s stretched along the couch with his head on zayn’s lap and wearing nothing but a pair of boxers to display his array of tattoos, joint in hand.

they’re in zayn’s flat, high off their fucking minds and sitting lazily with the telly on. the screen spurting out images and random sounds in a blurry haze. 

“and do what exactly?” zayn jokes, “run a record shop?”

because harry always had a thing for music. 

harry stares, teeth digging into his bottom lip in contemplation. zayn can’t stop touching him. 

“maybe. it’d be fun though, wouldn’t it?”

he moans lowly, savouring the feel of zayn’s hand buried in his curls. the other, moving about expertly and caressing the swallows underneath harry’s collarbone downdowndown to the skin just above harry’s cock. like dainty fingers playing piano keys absentmindedly. 

“you know, you remind me of a treasure,” harry starts after a moment, eyes red and evasive and turning into little stars that haven’t quite connected yet. “like gold sultani from the ottoman empire.” 

“some wonderful fantasy that’s just out of reach,” he finishes. because sultani coins are rare to find. they’ve been looking for them for years. 

zayn laughs sheepishly, tilting his head to look at harry properly. he doesn’t really know where this is going but— 

“oh?” he’s kind of flattered.

“reckon it’s for the best,” harry says, dimple out.

zayn pecks the side of harry’s chin, drags his hand along the edges of harry’s hip bone and half-smiles. 

“is it now?” 

“treasures like that are bound for disaster anyway,” harry adds. like brackets. because there’s a postscript there, a hidden meaning to be interpreted. 

and zayn thinks it’s endearing in a way, how harry talks in metaphors and allegories that zayn will probably never understand. or maybe he does and he just refuses to hear.

“what are you on about, haz?” he asks, mumbling into harry’s curls and breathing words into the side of his neck. “you’re not making sense.”

harry doesn’t answer and smiles like he’s in love, but his eyes are so sad that zayn wonders if he missed the point somehow. feelings are a terrible thing, anyway.

when louis gets shot, it’s not like any other time. zayn doesn’t know why it’s particularly different but he sees the gash below louis’ left lung and it’s bloody and deep and zayn is seriously shitting his pants because he has no fucking idea what to do. 

“you bloody idiot,” he says, tight-lipped. 

and louis laughs so loudly in uneven gasps that it echoes in zayn’s ears like an awful song. he frowns harder because _it’s not fucking funny louis._  

“that was the idea, yeah?” louis jokes, smiling even through the pain. 

zayn wants to punch him in the face. 

“what’ve you done this time?” he asks calmly though his body is saying otherwise, hands shaking and trying desperately to control the hemorrhaging with a cloth. there’s too much blood. 

it takes louis a minute to answer, breath ragged and knuckles closed into tight fists. 

“wrong place, wrong time?” he tries. 

harry shows up then, floors creaking noisily as he bustles his way into zayn’s flat like a huge elephant in the room. 

“you careless twit,” harry swears and zayn’s never really seen harry so mad and worried and looking like he’s about to murder someone in a minute. it’s scary, really. “what the fuck happened to you?!”

louis grins. 

“got caught in a pinch smuggling some paintings over,” he tries to explain. “completely moronic on my part, i admit. remind me never to ship valuables with alistair’s men. they’re a pain in the fucking arse for following through.” 

“you’ve got some nerve,” harry says, eyes rolling and taking out the first aid kit zayn keeps near his stack of books. 

louis coughs, sputtering out blood. “would make for a lovely story, don’t you think?” 

harry curses in disbelief. louis beams. zayn buries his face into his hands because louis getting shot was expected, apparently.

 

 

zayn is unsure, messy, and _flawed._ he listens to songs about being lost and looking for things you didn’t know were gone in the first place. he draws his mind on empty canvases and wrinkled paper to people he will never know. or love. because he doesn’t know what love is. 

so when he sees perrie outside his flat, banging on his wooden door like her life depended on it he shouldn’t be surprised that he let her in, like clockwork. like this is just how it is because zayn should honestly be used to this by now. 

perrie ignores his mumbled hellos and grabs his face, all teeth and tongue and desperate lips. and yeah. it really is a bad habit that he can’t get tired of, zayn thinks.

“perrie, it’s _three_ am.”

“i can see that.” 

zayn fumbles with her shirt, wasting no time to unclasp her laced bra as he kisses her exposed skin and smothers his face into the depths of her breasts. it pleases zayn in a way that all he can think of is _perrieperrieperrie_ , the tips of her purple hair touching the sides of his cheeks as he lifts her by the waist. 

“god, zayn.” 

and it’s very much a shame, if zayn had to be honest. because zayn doesn’t like perrie the way he should.

they fuck slow, more than once. perrie coming three times in a row.

 

 

 

 

 

he swallows the regret he feels when harry walks in on them. ignores the way harry tries to smile, lips forming into a thin line because it’s not coming out right. 

“you really are quite daft, aren’t you?” harry says with a kind of finality that saddens the pits of zayn’s stomach. his back is facing zayn, hands trembling treacherously as he takes the doorknob.

“m’sorry,” zayn says definitively. like an afterthought.

harry closes the door without a word. zayn lets him because it shouldn’t matter anyway. he wonders how long it’ll take for him to keep lying to himself before he believes it.

zayn can’t tell if he misses harry or if he misses the _idea_ of him but it’s all a bit unnerving because he shouldn’t be feeling this way in the first place. he has perrie and random one night stands, after all. he pushes the thought away when he shows up at harry’s doorstep like he doesn’t know where else to go.

harry sighs. “what’re you doing here, zayn?” 

“i missed,” zayn coughs, “i-i missed you, actually.”

he doesn’t necessarily mean to say that but it comes out anyways in spewing heaps and awkward words, which pulls the air in a sort of tension that makes it difficult to breathe.

“that’s not fair,” harry says. and he looks so troubled that zayn’s already up and close and breathing into harry’s personal space, arms resting around harry’s waist as if he’ll take whatever it is away. 

“you can’t just say things like that and expect me to believe you,” he adds, head downcast.

“harry,” zayn starts, tightening his hold on the latter like he wants to go down on memory lane and explain all the reasons why harry is important and charming and—

harry shakes him off abruptly, resolves to sitting on the sofa carefully instead. it worries zayn more than he could think, hands itching for a pack of marlboros to calm his nerves. he feels his chest tighten, hesitant to say anything, but he needs the words to move past the confines of his throat because harry’s the only person zayn can think to understand.

“i’m sorry,” he echoes, “with the way i left things.”

 _perrie_ , it underlines.

“i always thought it’d be you and i,” harry replies, eyes refusing to meet zayn’s. 

“w-what are you saying?”

“i don’t know.”

“don’t be ridiculous, haz.”

harry closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “there’s nothing to say. you and me, we’re not supposed to last forever.”

“i think i need some time,” zayn says after a moment, eyes wide. 

harry just looks at him and nods because he never expected anything. and if you expect nothing from somebody, you’ll never be disappointed. zayn taught him well, after all. feelings are a terrible thing.

harry disappears a week after.

“i’m sorry,” louis says plaintively, cautious with his words. like there’s something he wants to say but can’t.

zayn doesn’t hear him, feels moths in his ribcage trying to eat his heart out instead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**IV**

he’s sweating buckets and he’s pretty sure his shoulder is broken. _again_. they’ve just infiltrated the uk branch of the bratva. zayn wants to punch louis for almost getting them killed. 

“you’ve another job after this,” louis says. “think you can handle it? i’ll gather a team as soon as we get back.”

zayn rolls his eyes. replies with, “another hit then?” 

he’s done this before, of course. nothing new or surprising especially when he’s part of the biggest london crime family around. it’s a kill-or-be-killed kind of world he lives in when all is said and done, anyway. 

louis stares at him, a glint in his eyes. “something like that. adler expects nothing but the best, of course.” 

he tosses him a folder.

zayn merely hums in agreement, catching it with ease. “ _i am the best.”_

louis grins, all toothy and genuine. “you’re parker, after all.”

he thinks it’s rather strange because he’s nothing like _parker_.

 

 

 

 

 

zayn opens the folder that night, taking the money and dumping the load to the rest of his stash underneath a small compartment of his suitcase, hidden by clothes and guns and knives.  

his breath catches in his throat when he sees a small piece of paper, dropped carelessly on the floor from the folder. he picks it up. 

it reads: _harry styles._

“what in bloody god’s name is this about?” zayn practically yells, voice vibrating as he opens and closes his fists tightly, not knowing what else to do. “you can’t mean to tell me that adler wants harry dead?! and _me_ , of all people, are you fucking serious tomlinson?” 

louis sits on the edge of the bed of their hotel room, head titled and cheek resting on an open palm as he watches zayn pace. “are you nearly finished?”

zayn grimaces. louis pinches his nose. 

“you’re really quite dense when you want to be, aren’t you?” louis tells him, looking threateningly cross.

“what are you on about, mate?” 

louis sighs melodramatically because zayn is a fucking idiot who can’t seem to understand that there are bigger things happening than a letter that simply reads: _harry styles_.

“adler wants him alive, you twat. that’s _his son_.”

wait _—what._

zayn draws out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

louis whistles, arms crossed now. “you really didn’t know?”

zayn keeps quiet because his mind has fucked him more times than any man could ever know.  

 

 

 

 

 

he finds niall before the blond enters the tube. he shoves him with great ferocity to the nearest telephone booth, his good arm right up against niall’s throat with a knife on the side of niall’s cheek.

“you best be careful,” niall says, smirk wide and daunting. “recklessness can kill a man.”

zayn sneers. “if you know what’s good for you—”

“nice try, mate.”

zayn lets go. niall rolls his shoulders, fingers resting gingerly at the base of his throat.

“really, malik. i didn’t think you’d succumb so easily to my charms.”

zayn almost punches him in the face. “where is he?”

niall rolls his eyes, looks at zayn like he’s grown two heads. “y’er really quite daft, aren’t you?”

“of what, exactly?”

 “you’re kidding, right?”

“horan—”

“don’t bother. because that’s what it sounded like.”

zayn resigns, arms crossed. niall sighs, shaking his head. 

“he left because of you, you know.” 

zayn opens his mouth to interject but niall gets his mouth in first, “i get it. the infamous parker doesn’t do feelings. so you were scared, you cared more than should. still doesn’t excuse the fact that you messed him about ‘cause y’er bloody heart couldn’t admit it.”

zayn laughs, “you’ve taken up mind-reading, then? because you’ve got it all wrong.”

niall mutters something like, _i don’t need to when it’s written all over your goddamn face_. besides, it’s hidden beneath the way zayn looks at harry and the faint curl of his mouth that follows afterwards. like harry’s the only person in the world zayn sees. you’d be a fool not to realize.

he gives in easily though, expected this outcome really. “it’s a working theory.”

zayn huffs out a breath.

niall ignores him, looks over at the moving crowd outside the booth and adds, “so you’ve found out then? harry never was good at keeping secrets.”

“where is he?” zayn grits out, hand closing tightly on the knife that he’s still holding because _really niall, you should know by now that i hate repeating myself._

“out and about. he’s probably shagging up some beard right now.”

zayn glares. nialls puts his hands up. “m’just pulling y’er leg mate. calm down.”

he looks at zayn gravely after a moment, voice solemn and just above a whisper. 

“keller’s got him.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**V**

louis greets him in the north wing at the mansion in essex, which was by no means the biggest establishment owned by the adler family. 

“he’ll be happy to see you,” louis says.

zayn nods, saying nothing and tapping the manila folder previously tucked in his arm briefly. he gives a small smile to cara (adler’s secretary) towering over a pristine desk in the familiar lounge area and continues towards the doors at the far end of the room.

“zayn, louis. please take a seat,” adler says straightening up in his chair and smoothing out the stack of papers in front of him. he’s dressed in a fine suit, as always. canali, most likely.

“welcome back boys. what’ve you got for me?” 

zayn places the folder in his hand on the desk. “intelligence came in today from virginia. cia’s still trailing our banks, trying to see where the money is coming from. soca agents are setting up a team to do surveillance on the mansion.”

“why do they insist on making such trouble?” adler asks, sounding utterly bored and uninterested.

louis nudges him. zayn narrows his eyes. “keller’s got harry.”

“i’ve set up a team already. liam and niall are in, of course. grimshaw, danny, and josh as well,” louis adds.

adler nods, lips in a thin line. “louis, will you give us a minute?” 

louis leaves before zayn can do anything about it. adler rubs at his temples, frown lines showing. he turns to zayn and smiles sadly, “i know it’s a bit of a surprise.”

zayn snorts, because he can. “ _a bit_ is rather a big understatement.”

“harry was adamant that you were to be kept in the dark,” adler explains. “i don’t know the details between the two of you. and if i had to be honest, i personally don’t care. you’ve been good for this family’s business and i trust you wouldn’t do anything to compromise that.”

“of course.”

adler stands, taking out two tumblers from the bar near the couch. he pours thirty year old scotch into the awaiting glasses, offering zayn one. it’s all rather disconcerting.

“i hired you for a specific reason and i intend to follow through with that promise i made, years ago.”

“what are you saying?” zayn asks, cautious and only a little confused. 

adler smiles, a half smile that doesn’t quite reach the tips of his cheeks. “intelligence has been trying to find keller years before you came along. we’ve gathered as much information as we can but the man was a ghost. his lackeys did all the dirty work while he sat back and watched his destruction. things have changed since then. he’s been more violent, more risky.”

adler takes a sip of his scotch and looks out the window somberly. zayn feels like it’s déjà vu.

“i’m retiring soon, malik. harry’s the only heir i got. of course there’s always gemma but do you see where i’m going?” he takes a glance at zayn before continuing. zayn nods. 

“i promised you keller, promised you the revenge you’ve wanted,” adler says, “louis has all the information. we’ve been digging around for years, you see. playing our parts before making a move. keller needs to be dealt with permanently, even if it means the rest of his family will perish. all i ask is for my son in return.”

“admit it.” 

niall sniggers. liam sighs, exasperated. zayn wants to punch all of them in the face.

“i swear if you try to start that conversation before my first cup of coffee i will throw you over my balcony,” zayn replies. he’s still heavy with sleep, sweatpants hanging low on his hips and his hands clutching desperately to the mug liam handed him.

“come off it,” louis replies easily. “i think we need an intervention. honest. you’re just as dumb as i found you back then.” 

“m’not wallowing, if that’s what you’re worried about,” zayn resigns, arms crossed.

“haven’t you taught him anything?” niall asks, facing louis with an accusing tone.

zayn gives him the finger. liam just looks like he’s heard this argument one too many times.

“i don’t fancy him—”

“yes, yes. we get the fucking speech.”

“—if you could just stop being such an inconsiderate prat—”

“d’ya really reckon he’ll—”

“no because you keep interrupt—”

“probably cause y’er a fucking dollophead.” 

_bang._

“for fuck’s sake,” liam yells, eyeing all of them wearily. “you lot are worse than children, i swear to god.”

“you shot my bloody couch,” zayn says in disbelief. _what the hell._

“i don’t know if you’ve noticed,” liam drawls, “but there are bigger things to worry about. like harry being kidnapped, for example.”

zayn braces himself.

liam continues.

“if you’re gonna pull everyone along this emotional constipation of yours, i might as well say what we’re all thinking: you have _feelings._ you’re human. get over it and bloody well use them.”

zayn opens his mouth to complain but liam gives him a glare that stops zayn dead in his tracks. self-preservation, he repeats to himself. the other two stay quiet, for good reason. 

“and don’t give me any more bullshit about how i’ve got it all wrong and that harry’s a mate, because you’re being a fucking cunt right now. offense included,” liam finishes.

zayn laughs, a broken kind of laugh that cuts too short and isn’t contagious or infectious because he’s still trying to get it right. 

“you want him,” liam adds softly, fond almost, “i just don’t want you to believe that love is a word only lonely people used. so stop being an idiot, yeah?”

zayn doesn’t recognize the warm sense of adulation creeping up in his stomach and fluttering like hummingbird wings until he really thinks about harry. because there never was anything complex or perplexing about how he was with the green-eyed bloke. or the way harry kisses zayn and smiles after zayn fucks him. like harry wants the world to be as happy as he is.

“fuck,” he manages, breathing ragged. “i think i love him.”

 

 

(niall whistles. “hallelujah. the boy’s finally got it.”

“liam you are a god among men,” louis preaches. “i could kiss you.”

niall grins. “fifty quids says they’ll be fucking like rabbits soon as we kill keller.”

“a hundred quids to harry slapping him first,” louids adds.

“i seriously think you all need therapy,” liam responds.)

doniya gets killed as a warning. zayn doesn’t mourn because he’s done that already.

“i should’ve warned her,” zayn says. it’s said offhandedly and without any emotion because he is nothing more than fragile bones and sleep deprived eyes filled with nightmares he’s grown tired of.

liam stares, smile sad. “there was nothing you could’ve done, mate.”

he feels zayn’s rage hit the ceiling after a moment and braces himself. 

zayn takes a sharp intake of breath. repeats, “nothing i could have—” 

“we’ll get him,” liam promises. he doesn’t apologize or tell zayn that everything will be all right. because there is nothing more he can do but _just be_. 

“and harry?” zayn asks, voice small.

liam knows zayn wants to say more but doesn’t push. because zayn is his best mate (he doesn’t give a fuck what louis says) and if zayn doesn’t quite like talking about his feelings, well. liam understands anyway.

“that’s what we’ve got you for,” he replies. 

zayn nods, feeling his lungs tightening like swollen balloons filled with hacked-up spit as he fights the urge to cry and laugh and break all at once. 

sometimes, he wonders where happiness goes when it’s lost.

zayn has slaughtered the rest of the keller family by the time he gets to him, ripping the foundations out of the old mansion they’ve been cooped up in and driving bullets through chests and foreheads. the mansion is nothing but a pile of dust and rubble when his team finishes. bombs and all.

pity that it’s a sunday.

their play involves a long con of smuggling iraqi artifacts and using counterfeit stock certificates that keller’s men have been trying to get a hold of. some serbian arms dealers were involved too and really, zayn just doesn’t want to think about that right now because what he needs at this moment is to kill the man lying on the cracked pavement.

anthony keller is a bloody mess when zayn drags him out. both of his legs are mangled. zayn’s pretty sure he can see bone but everything is white noise as he smiles almost blindingly like the sun. anger, hot and bright, it nearly hurts to look at.

“do you remember who i am?” zayn asks. blood is running down his face and his arms. his shoulder is in pain (fucking bullet almost killed him), but he ignores it. all of it. 

“do you know what you’ve done?” he continues.

“you do realize,” keller barely makes out, “that harry is nowhere near this place. do you think me stupid, malik?”

zayn scoffs. “i think you perfectly capable, which is why i’ve got grimshaw and danny already on their way there. you didn’t think i’d be able to catch that, did you? your lady friend kasha seemed eager to tell. but that doesn’t mean i don’t get to have my fun.”

keller gawks at him. and would you look at that, his ribs are still in place. zayn finds that unacceptable and crushes them with his feet. keller screams _murder_.

“don’t be so dramatic,” zayn drawls, manic. “i’ve been through worse.” 

there’s one chamber left from the barrel of the gun. he pulls the trigger.

_bang._

they find harry that afternoon. 

“you look a right mess.”

harry looks over at him, his green eyes burning and his clothes splattered with blood, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

zayn doesn’t hesitate, gripping harry around his shoulders so tight that it ought to hurt while his opposite arm is wrapped around the small of harry’s back. harry stares at him, crushed in an embrace and looking like he hadn’t thought zayn would be capable of _feeling_.

“took you long enough,” he starts. 

zayn is bleeding, fingers digging into harry’s ribs like he can’t breath unless he’s certain what’s beneath his hand is real. harry is bleeding too, and it’s been a long time since he wasn’t. 

“i’m fine,” harry murmurs, “honest. a few broken bones and bruises maybe but i’m fine, really.”

“jesus,” zayn chokes like he can’t help it anymore, “fuck. _harry._ ”

and then they’re kissing and zayn’s forgotten how good this was because harry’s mouth hit his like a train, as though he’d spent his entire life floating in space and harry was the ground and this thing between them was the gravity that he’d been craving would kick in eventually. 

harry shifts closer in zayn’s arms, cards his fingers though zayn’s hair to grip the back of zayn’s head. he pulls away, but only far enough to speak. “i’m not going anywhere, not this time.”

and zayn really fucking hopes it’s a promise he can keep.

a cough. 

“about bloody fucking time,” niall whistles loudly, pulling the trigger with ease as the body (which zayn should've fucking seen) behind them groans. 

louis pops in next, stares at the mess before rattling off. “oi! i don’t know about you but we’ve still got like six guys out there trying to beat us to death. a little help would be nice!”

he turns to leave. adds, “if you soil the upholstery after this, i will personally kill the both of you.”

“he means the stolen porsche you’ll be driving,” niall says by way of explanation.

harry laughs like summer bells and it’s the best thing zayn’s heard all year.

“i would’ve stayed,” harry says, completely out of the blue. “if you had asked me, i mean.”

they’re sitting at the back of the panemara, huddled close together while liam drives and louis babbles about random facts of life.

zayn squints at him. “what are you talking about?”

“back then,” he explains, “when i left. before you asked me for some time to think things over…” 

harry doesn’t continue, doesn’t have to really when zayn holds him tighter and strokes his hair gently. _sorrysorrysorry_ going through his head like a painful mantra.

“i’m sorry,” zayn echoes and he really hopes that harry believes him this time because he doesn’t quite know what love is or what kisses and falling means but they are words he wanted to try.

“i believe you.” harry furrows his eyebrows after a moment. adds, “emotionally stunted prat.”

a pout.

“twat.”

harry smiles, outlining the curves of zayn’s collarbones with his lips and resting his palm right on zayn’s heart. zayn moans, blood rushing and stomach fluttering. 

“i think if i woke up next to you, i’d be more of a morning person,” he mumbles after a moment without thinking. server connectivity issues, zayn is sure. he’s going to kill perrie for that line.

harry grins, eyes a bit dazed and watery and red. like he can’t believe this is quite happening. he beams like the sun and it almost blinds zayn.

“is this the part where you coerce me into telling you that your eyes are like chocolate pools or summat?” harry replies, half-laughing with unabashed adulation.

zayn’s skin feels warm. “if it gets you to suck my cock, then yes. absolutely.”

liam and louis turn back with a glare. _don’t you dare,_ it means.

 

 

 

 

 

**I**

 

zayn drinks black coffee and smokes cigarettes until five in the morning. he’s bleeding. the pungent odor burning through his nose like this was how it’s always been. he supposes it is. 

harry comes through the door, muscles stiff and long limbs awkward like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves. everything aches and harry just looks so damn _young_ standing there with wide eyes glazed over and bloodied everywhere _._

“i think i’ve lost my mind,” he says aloud, putting fingers onto zayn’s shoulder and feeling the warm, wet blood trickling down on tan skin, wrecked from a bullet.

“you’re not dreaming, if that’s what you’re asking,” zayn says, smile spreading slowly as he lifts his hand. he brushes the tips of his fingers over harry’s bottom lip and sighs, content.

 _i want to love you,_ zayn thinks.

he reaches out and pulls harry in, grabbing at his hair and licking the roof of harry’s mouth. the kiss, an act of masculine aggression as he grinds both their cocks together in a rhythm they only know.

harry beams like he can read zayn’s mind because

“you loved me all along.”

**Author's Note:**

> i've recently gotten obsessed with white collar and burn notice so you'll probably realize the comparisons evident in this fic. completely irrelevant, i know. but i've literally had this story floating in my laptop for six months. it's been ripped apart, drafted, re-written so many times that i'm honestly surprised i even finished it. 
> 
> anyways. enough rambling.
> 
> i just want to thank you all so much for reading! i hope you honestly enjoyed it.  
> kudos and comments (even if it's criticism) are greatly appreciated. those sort of things make a writer happy.
> 
>  **a/n (july nineteen, twenty-fourteen):** some small revisions have been made because a) i'm a perfectionist. b) i can't stand not having those incorrections, no matter how small, corrected. c) again. perfectionist.


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